Just Beneath
by Rheniel
Summary: It takes a brilliant mind to create an illusion, but what lies beneath when all seems perfect?
1. Hidden

No-one ever bothers to look further when they have a "truth" right in front of them that makes perfect sense. They think that, because they can hear, they understand. That because they can look, they see. But sometimes the most beautiful sounds are only made to hide the most hideous of words; sometimes beautiful colors are painted together cover the ugliest of stains.

It was the story of her life, every day of it. It was the story of who she had been, who she was, and who she'd always hoped to become. She never failed, she was never wrong, she was the epitome of moral rightness, and there was never a moment of indecision. Everyone thought she was perfect; or, at least, as close to perfect as anyone was likely to get. But today… today, she couldn't be. Not anymore. And today she _could_ be just herself, the failure that would never mean anything to anyone, because no-one in this place even knew to look for the picture-perfect world.

She'd pretended to be asleep, that morning, when they'd come to get her up. It had only been eight in the morning, but she knew they only wanted her not-to-sleep because they knew she enjoyed sleep. Besides, they only way they could possibly believe she'd slept through being dumped from her bed like that is if they were deluding themselves. They were masters of lies and illusion, though, so perhaps they'd even fooled themselves. It was just one more thing that wasn't normal about her, since no "normal" person could sleep through such a thing. Which would fit their purposes nicely, because she couldn't ever be normal, no, not her.

Not that they didn't praise her – at least to their friends. The other snobs at the office didn't know what school she went to, but that didn't mean her parents couldn't get some prestige out of it. They simply told the others that she went to a school so exclusive that it wasn't even listed; it was their way. And it was more than just partially the truth, though they might have made up the exact same story if she'd gone to a prison school that no-one'd heard of.

But in private – in private she heard every day about her oddness, her laziness, her carelessness. The times in her younger years when she'd done accidental magic were now attributed to a lack of self-control, never mind that all magical children did such things. The time she spent on her school work over the summer was considered as "free time", or even as time she spent looking after her "hobby". Her school, they saw much as though they were spoiling their child by sending her to a school where she didn't even have to work – after all, there was no math, and they knew their daughter enjoyed it far too much for it to be truly academic.

And so, they'd struck a deal, right from the first day she'd gotten her letter. She could go to this school, and they would pay for it, but she had to keep up with her regular schoolwork by correspondence. She would be required to take standardized tests at dates they specified (always far earlier than they were intended to be taken), and to graduate at least two years early.

Which meant that, this summer marked her official graduation. The paperwork had been completed, and the tests taken, and they were waiting for the results. Both her Muggle and Wizarding marks would be coming by the end of this summer, though the OWL results ought to arrive first, and she wasn't certain which she was more afraid to see. She'd been so caught up worrying about the OWL's that she'd nearly forgotten her Muggle testing until just before exams – but then she'd been so worried about having not studied for the Muggle tests that she hadn't been able to focus properly in the Wizarding ones.

And when they found out, when they knew how badly she'd done, things would get even worse. They delighted in telling their friends what the odd little outcast their daughter was, about how she had no friends, but at least before they would also tell the stories of how ridiculously smart she was. If she did poorly on the tests – not even that, if she didn't do so well that it was freakishly amazing, the summer would go down hill so fast she might just not see the other end of it – at least not in a fit mental state.

As if that weren't enough, many of her parents' friends' children were exceptionally intelligent in their own right; at least two were graduating and testing as early as she, and her scores and theirs would be released side-by-side. Not only that, but they'd had the full school year, every year that had passed between eleven and now, at almost sixteen, to prepare. She had to do ridiculously better than _them_ for it to count for anything at all. The only way they'd accept anything even resembling a tie, is if she had perfect scores.

If she didn't, though, if her scores weren't that height of perfection, the time from score-release until September the first would stretch into eternity. She knew that as well as she knew that the hoped-for scores were unlikely to come; there was a year, once, where she'd failed a science class. Never, before then, had she gotten less than a perfect grade, not in anything, but it hadn't mattered. She'd tried to hide the score when it had come, slip it into the trash before anyone noticed, but they'd found out anyhow. Anyone who'd asked had been told she'd won an academic scholarship to a summer abroad program; hiding her away in her room had been the only way to hide the bruises.

And if she scored _badly_, if she didn't pass, or scored _average_… There'd be no more Hogwarts. Oh, if she were careful enough, she might manage to get back; after all, if she could get to a friend's house, say, a week before term, her parents would let her go. They'd do anything rather than be found out for who they were; it was their one weakness, and she could use that. But if she messed up in her plan, or if they thought she planned to reveal them, or if…

She didn't want to think about it. Even if she managed to escape, though, she'd have to come back the next summer. And then…

No, the only way, the _only_ way, was if her scores were perfect. They had to be. Just _had_ to be, she wouldn't even think of it any other way.

The light flicked on, from the switch that she didn't have any access to from inside her room, and she pulled herself up. Pretending this time would only end in the bed being taken away permanently – the rules were unspoken, but she knew them just as well anyhow. She pulled her clothes on quickly; it was cold out here, early in the morning. Her parents told their friends she had the guest suite, the little one-room area above the garage, because it granted her independence, or because they trusted her so well and it was a sign of that trust. But the real reason? If anyone ever found out that their daughter was an "evil" witch, they could claim they knew nothing of it, and it would be believable.

For a moment, as she wandered down the stairs into the garage, she imagined letting on to the neighbors. She could almost see them, consoling her parents, saying "Ah, well, it's not really your fault she took advantage of the trust you put in her." She wouldn't be surprised if her parents even had a stack of occult paraphernalia on hand, to slip into her room and disguise the real magic books, just in case of such an event. They would get their pity, at least, and it might just be enough for them to allow her to go free.

Her fantasy ended abruptly, however, as something tripped her on the steps, and she nearly fell down the last few, only just barely catching her balance in time. She looked back – it was her father. She'd walked passed him on the stairs, not noticing. He must have realized her daze, and tripped her to call her on it. Oh, but this wouldn't be good. Why on earth had she caught herself?

"Prideful brat. Too good to learn your lessons when they're taught? I know you're careless, that you _couldn't care less_, not about me or your mother. Even when we've done all we have for you, letting you go to that school, getting you private tuition so you can keep up with _real_ school work. But you'll not get away with doing whatever you please, missy."

The look in his eyes was downright scary. She stared straight ahead, and tried not to think too much. _No, they couldn't have. There's no way. It should be months, yet._

"We pulled some strings, daughter dearest. Managed to get hold of a copy of your test results."

"W-w-wh" she cleared her throat. "Which tests?"

"Why, the _real _tests, of course." His eyes were positively _gilttering._ Either he was very, very proud, or...

"Get the belt, Hermione."

Her eyes fell on the braided rope of leather, hanging off to the side of the garage door, in a shadowed corner, that hadn't seen usesince the summer of her "trip".It had certainly never been intended to hold up a set of pants. Obviously not on the trim waist of her father; it would likely encircle him three times. But things had to have their names, so that no-one could slip and say a wrong word, not even in their sleep. And while _it_ would never be discussed where anyone might hear, they wouldn't take any unnecessary risks. This was for her own good, after all, and others might not understand; their children could obey without such measures, and might think them extreme.

Hermione had crossed the room; now she pulled the _thing_ from off its' hook, and her mind went white.


	2. Planning Escape

A/N: Mind you, I've no idea whatsoever how testing works in situations like this, so I took some advice, some ideas, and created a subject testing system that's at least reasonably ambiguous. If it doesn't fit anything anyone's ever heard of, well, pretend it's a special set of tests, made up by some school or another for a graduation requirement, and that that's where she's getting her diploma from.

Hermione woke to darkness, and the solid coldness of a concrete floor. She couldn't tell whether she had come from unconsciousness, or simply removed herself from the blank… space… she'd seemed to enter. The feeling was far from reassuring, bringing to mind memories of another summer, years before… She shuddered. The sound of a passing car echoed oddly loudly from outside, and she caught sight, in the hazy glow of headlights through the cracks of the garage door, of neatly-organized wooden shelves, full of gardening implements, to her left. So she was in the garage, then, and still quite alive.

She didn't dare try to sit up yet, but waited, assessing her injuries, mentally feeling her way through her body. Even without moving, she could sense the incredible pain coming from her stomach, arms, and legs. Her back was a much duller pain, but she supposed that might be from the coolness of the cement floor. Cautiously, she raised her arms just a little. The burning sensation was nearly unbearable, and she had to swallow a sob, but it faded quickly. Just cuts, then, and no bruises. Ignoring, for a moment, the pain, she softly patted herself down, finding bleeding slashes from the belt covering her body, but they were shallow enough that the blood was already dried, for all but three, and… nothing more. And… there were no marks on her hands, or even the lower part of her arms.

A soft hope burned, then, and she reached up towards her face. She was afraid, so afraid, but there was some chance, if she hadn't really been _beaten, _that… Her fingers gently probed the flesh of her face, then her neck, and she had to choke back a second sob. Unmarked. Her face was unmarked. That meant… they planned to let her out, or at least have her around when company appeared. She must have passed, surely, and perhaps even done alright.

Hermione grinned into the darkness, an expression that was very nearly happy, and, very slowly, rolled to her side. The grin became more of a grimace, then, as she achingly pulled herself to her hands and knees. She made an attempt at getting to her feet, but gave it up for lost very quickly. The thought of dragging her bloodied legs up the stairs, though, was nearly worse. Thank God she'd at least had the sense to brew a pain potion, and a strong antiseptic, before she left school, just in case. She couldn't heal the wounds, or her parents would know, but she could at least keep the pain down and prevent infection.

Determinedly, she made her slow way towards the staircase, collapsing only once on the way. Reaching the foot of the steps, she snagged a flashlight she'd hidden years before underneath one of the shelf-sets, carrying it in her teeth to keep her hands free as she crawled. The pain fought a battle with her will, over her mind, and a cloudy sensation threatened several times. She couldn't pass out here, though, and she dragged herself up another step, and then another.

Her door, at last, loomed just ahead. Taped to it, far above her current reach, was what looked like some sort of packet. Obviously, her parents meant for her to read it, and, more than likely, they'd expect her to do so tonight. Carefully, she turned the knob, and opened the door. Spitting the flashlight out on the floor, she clicked it on. The beam was pointed in entirely the wrong direction, but the glow from it illuminated things at least a little. Enough, at any rate, to catch sight of her name in large print on the whatever-it-was on her door.

She heaved a sigh, knowing she was safely out of hearing range, at least for such a noise as that. There was nothing for it, though; she'd have to fetch down whatever they'd left for her. She scanned her room for something to use, but her eyes caught nothing that might work. She didn't have any idea how she could manage to stand, but then it occurred to her fog-riddled mind that she could reach it from kneeling. Not that kneeling was really very comfortable, but at least it was _possible_. She muffled a groan as she realized the mess she'd likely left from the garage to here, and the mess she was likely still leaving on the floor. No doubt she would have to clean it up.

But, really… no reason not to heal herself up, first. Just a few more feet, and she was at her trunk. A moment later, and not a moment too soon, she'd downed half a vial of pain potion. She could feel the numbing sensation take over her body; not surprising considering the strength of the dose she'd just taken. But as it numbed her body, it freed her mind, and she plucked the flashlight from its position on the ground to give herself a more thorough assessment.

There were, surprisingly, only a few gashes that hadn't closed yet, though several more had re-opened on her way up the steps. She plucked a vial of the antiseptic from her trunk, and the muggle gauze and tape from beneath her bed, and, starting with her arms, treated the wounds. She did a very careful, thorough job, and looked much less like a mummy than she'd originally expected. It must have taken hours, by the time she was done, but her wizarding timepiece still read "plenty of time", and it had never let her down before.

In the end, though, she remembered the package decorating her door. Gathering her courage, she retrieved what turned out to be an envelope. Settling herself on her floor (it was, at least, hardwood, and easy to clean. Better to make a mess there than on the crisp, white bed sheets, or the powder blue comforter. Carefully, flashlight in one hand, she pulled out the contents; two sheets of paper. One was hand written, and the other looked like a photocopy of her exam scores. With trembling hands, she picked up the sheet of scores, first.

While her English score was perfect, her math score was perfectly average. The other tests all fell in-between. They were… good scores. Nothing amazing in their own right, but… amazing considering she'd not attended a moment of school in five years. And they ought to have been good enough to have avoided last night's…encounter. There had to be something else, something she was missing…

Hermione studied the sheet, and flipped it over… Oh. On the back side, there was science. Her scores, all her scores, in the sciences were dismal… in everything except Chemistry, on which she'd also gotten a perfect score. Biology, Earth Science… below average. And Physics was the worst. Well, that explained that.

She didn't even want to know what her parents had to say, but it was better to know in advance than be caught by surprise. Besides, if they planned on anything serious enough, it would be best to run now, while she still had some chance.

Not allowing herself to flinch away from it, she plucked the letter from her parents off the floor beside her.

_Our dearest Hermione,_

_Your father and I have come to the conclusion that we have given you far too much liberty, catered far too often to your whims over the past few years. We were saddened to discover that you did not even feel it necessary to study for, and do well on, your exams. You have been given every privilege, and every advantage, and we only asked, in return, that you take your future seriously. It is with our deepest regrets that we feel we must place you on restriction this summer._

_We are only doing this to encourage you to realize your potential, dearest. Your father thinks that you need to realize the stark future that awaits if you neglect your studies, and I feel that you need to learn the value of hard work. And so, we will pay for you to continue your hobby, but you will earn that right. _

_There are two conditions. Firstly, you must earn the money that is spent on your pastime. You will be paid at the rate of two an hour for the rest of the summer, for chores done. You will be given a chores list, daily, and any unfinished chores will result in the usual restrictions for disobedience. In that light, we've sent Eliza and Franklin on vacation, to our usual summer place. We will be joining them there on August the first. You will be staying, and studying to meet the second condition._

_The second condition is that you improve your grades in mathematics, and especially the sciences to the scores we know you are capable of. We've arranged a re-test for August the Twelfth, and for the results of those tests to be returned to us on the Fifteenth. At that point, should your scores be acceptable and the necessary funds gathered, the appropriate arrangements will be made, and you will have the rest of the summer free._

_If you attempt to circumvent our efforts to help you, we will make use of Article Seven, section Ninety-Two. I'm sure you're aware of its contents._

_Mother_

_P.S. Your father has informed me that you are rather worn out from your travels and return home. You will be allowed the weekend to recuperate. We expect you to begin your efforts at breakfast, Monday._

She almost lost control of herself, almost threw up, or screamed, or passed out from the horror of it all. To anyone else, the letter would seem perfectly reasonable, just as her parents intended it. But Hermione knew, knew exactly what they meant and how they meant it. The words were ambiguous to an outsider, but not to her: _usual restriction for disobedience… _no food for two days; _your hobby_… also known as returning to Hogwarts; _the funds necessary…_ they expected her to raise the two thousand galleons to pay for school in… sixty-three days. That would be… thirty-two galleons a day… converted to muggle money… that was… impossible. No, they _had _to mean galleons in that _two an hour, _else they would have specified the money type.So… only sixteen hours a day. Seven days a week. From June until August.

That left no time at all for her Hogwarts work. Not a moment to study the books for next year; at least there was no summer homework this year. And if she failed? If she didn't get the grade they required? She could feel that threat hanging over her head as well; no more Hogwarts, and no more… leniency, in punishments. Yesterday had been meant as a warning. But what did they mean by Article Seven? Hermione dug in her trunk, anxiously, she just _knew _there'd been something, last year, in History. She flipped through her notebook, knowing it was sometime at the beginning of the year…

Article Seven. The Muggle Protection Act. Section Ninety-Two; the right of a non-magic parent over their magical child. She quickly skimmed her notes, but as she reached the end, she turned white, and read back over it all slowly.

Her parents had the power to withdraw her from the wizarding world entirely, and have her obliviated of all knowledge of wizarding culture, up until the time she entered her NEWT level classes. Up until this fall.

It explained so much, that article, and there was more to it than just what they were holding over her. It was why they'd demanded she graduate from a "normal" school this year; after she began this next school year, they lost control. She wouldn't be a legal adult until she turned Seventeen in the Wizarding world, but, as a Muggleborn, she had certain rights past this next fall. If she made it to school, began the semester, she could, at her choosing, be "fully emancipated from the Muggle world". The clause was a Pureblood slight to the Muggle world, but what it boiled down to for her was that, after this fall, she could simply decide to live on her own, as a witch.

She would be required to have a guardian, a witch or wizard, who accepted responsibility for her, who was at least thirty years of age. But that guardian could be of her choosing, and neither the ministry nor her parents would be able to as much as influence her choice. The only thing that could possibly hold her back, was that she had to prove she could support herself during the summer vacation from school between the sixth and seventh years; loans for her education itself were available, as ministry policy, to all Muggleborns in the NEWT years.

Hermione knew she'd have to meet her parents' conditions, anyways. It wasn't a matter of them actually paying, and, knowing that they'd read this, she honestly doubted that they would, even if she succeeded. But it _was_ a matter of them letting her go, of her being under their control. They thought their demands were impossible, and they likely wouldn't allow her to leave, even if she met them.

But Hermione wasn't the smartest Witch of her year for nothing. She could write it up in a contract, use runes, written in invisible ink, to make it a magical contract; rune-magic was unmonitorable by the ministry, she wouldn't get into trouble for it. Her parents would just think she was going along with their plan, just making it official; they might even be pleased that she was taking their "offer" so seriously. She wouldn't tell them any different. Not until the end of summer, anyhow. Not until the magical contract forced them to let her leave, else be exposed to the ministry of magic and enforced by armed members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

It would never come to that, though. All she'd have to do, is tell them the consequences of voiding a magical contract, and they'd put up no further argument. Anything to avoid discovery, to avoid someone knowing who and what they really were. Knowing she had the power to reveal them, they might even help her pack.

At the end of this summer, she could be free. Free to be whomever she wanted, do whatever she wanted, and never come back to this wretched place.

All she had to do, was work hard, and pass some tests. The work would be a challenge, but she'd find, and make, potions to help her. Energy potions, wakefulness potions, potions to get enough sleep for a day out of a two hour nap. Everything she could think of.

And the tests? They planned to only give her twelve days to study, but with the aid of the potions, she'd have the nights of all summer. And Hermione Granger could get a perfect score in anything with a whole summer to study.


	3. Sunbeam in Darkness

A/N: Hermione isn't going to be dating _any_ of the characters in here, as this isn't meant to be a romance (at least not at this point, for sure), so nobody has reason to be getting all pissy because you think I switched it to a Hermione/whomever fic. Just to let you know.

* * *

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright, and Hermione woke with it. The pink-grey sky seemed rather welcoming, even from her rather uncomfortable position on the floor. She had very little recollection of how she'd spent Saturday, really, aside from being quite certain she'd scrubbed the garage clean, as well as her room, before the pain potion had worn off entirely and she'd curled up into a rather miserable ball on her dark-colored bedroom rug. She must've slept after that, because the next thing she heard was footsteps on the stairwell, and the door to her room creaking open.

_She didn't dare move a muscle, as it was far too late to try and look productive, so she pretended to still be asleep. It was her mother, and she must've been in one of her better moods, because only silence reigned for a few moments, before the woman sighed, and simply spoke. Hermione gave no indication whatsoever that she was awake, but it didn't matter; the silent rules governed situations like this, as well._

"_I told your father not to be so harsh with you, yesterday. Oh, you no doubt deserved a punishment, but you and I both know you'd have done quite well without the excesses he went to. You're a bright girl, Hermione, and we just want to see you do well. I'm sure you simply put off studying too late, as always, distracted by the fun environment of your school. A little more discipline is all you need, now that you realize what success will require."_

_The "sleeping" girl didn't as much as twitch. Her mother was in one of her "doting parent" moods, pretending that she had no real part in her daughter's punishment, and Hermione wasn't about to do anything that might spoil it. Waking, or, rather, allowing the false half-illusion of sleep to fall from the one-sided conversation, would change the mood in an instant._

"_This summer should be good for you, give you a chance to learn about the real world, to realize we won't be there to look after you for all of your life. At some point, you have to become a contributing member of society, you know; all we're trying to do is raise you to be a good one. And you _have_ to do well academically, Hermione, or they'll never accept your odd personality. If you really _make_ something of yourself, though… then some of your grosser faults will be looked over as eccentricities."_

_Hermione didn't twitch, keeping her breathing even, trying not to hear what was being said, and failing all the same. She kept her face blank, her expression as even as her heartbeat was not, steeling herself against the little barbs, but feeling them fully in some deep, dark place in her soul. They made a home, there, hidden with all the other things like them, making her feel so much less than human, so very far from "normal". Often, conversations like these were intended to make her break. But this time, she couldn't afford it. Too much hung in the balance._

"_I know you're awake."_

_Hermione knew far better than to respond._

_The silence stretched on for a full minute,and then another. Her mother sighed, deep and mournful and heavy-burdened, as though all the pain in the world were less terrible than to have such a daughter as she._

_Finally, the elder Granger spoke again. "If you must." Then paused for a few more moments._

"_Your work will begin on Monday, as you know. You've tomorrow off entirely, as I thought it might be a nice treat. It would be nice if you had some nice, normal friends you could visit" – another sigh – "but it's alright. I thought it would give you the opportunity to pick up some study-guides for the exams. I'm sure you've enough money left from term-time to cover the cost." The clack of shoes on hardwood indicated she was leaving, and the creak of the door affirmed that impression._

_There was a pause, and she added. "Come straight to the front door, when you finish; I'll be checking everything you purchase. No fiction, and nothing off-topic. You can get school-year sorts of texts if you must, there will be lists by year at the bookstore, but be discrete."_

_The door closed, the steps receded down the stairs, and Hermione counted to two hundred before cautiously opening one eye to look at her clocks. The muggle one read six PM, and the Wizarding one read "time to plan". Taking the advice of her favorite inanimate object, she popped open the trunk, chugged a pain-potion, and tugged a spiral-bound notebook from underneath the neat stacks of wizarding textbooks._

_First, she needed a plan._

_And then she'd need a list._

She'd stayed awake long enough to make both, and prepare everything she needed for today. She planned to leave a note for her parents, telling them she'd left so early because she had to change the money from school-term. Though she didn't specifically say it, the ambiguous note meant that she was heading to Diagon Alley, to Gringotts', and implied that she'd be gone all day. It was, after all, a long and rather bothersome bus-ride to the wizarding district, and she'd neglected to mention the existence of the Knight Bus. As her parents "knew" she didn't have any access to any other form of wizarding travel, like the floo, they would assume she'd be gone all day. She should have enough time to complete her shopping, get the study guides, and return home before they even had the chance to suspect something.

She dressed quickly in the things she'd laid out the night before; the only thing at all odd about her garments was that it was mid-summer, and she'd chosen slacks and a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse. She'd picked through her clothes until she found something that at least appeared summery, and thought she'd done well-enough that no one would comment. The hair she still wore curly during the school year provided more than enough of a disguise; by use of a potion it was sleeked back, and it was unlikely anyone would recognize her. Refusing to waste any more time on her appearance, she tugged her hair into a braid, grabbed her knapsack, and began the cautious-but-hurried process of getting down the steps, through the garage, and out the side-door.

She didn't meet anyone on the way, not even the gardener. She didn't dare hail the bus near the house, not even near the houses of anyone they knew, so she set off quickly towards the muggle bus-station. Just to be sure, she'd take the muggle bus into some muggle area poor enough to be devoid of her parents' friends, which, while she'd wait until the third, would be any stop past the first. They were snobs, certainly; had they been magical, her parents would surely be pure-blooded bigots, most likely best friends with the Malfoys and their ilk.

She muffled the soft half-growl that threatened to form, thinking of her enemies. Though, just now, she wasn't so very certain they were wrong about muggles; at the very least, she wouldn't be upset if some of them decided to kill off the remnant of her muggle heritage in a Death Eater raid. Though, honestly, they couldn't be right about the rest of that rot; if magic depended upon breeding, then she couldn't have possibly been born with any. Were it genetic, she would've had to have had wizard or witch _somewhere_ in her family tree. That, or it meant that everyone carried the gene for using magic, even if it wasn't always active, which would suggest they were all descended from a common ancestor at some point, which would once more void the whole pure-blood theory. Putting a stop to her rather circular and useless argument, she focused instead on walking a touch faster, grateful that the pain potion could cover the misery she would otherwise be in. She didn't have anything to cover the drain on her usual energy, though; she desperately needed such potions, but that was what the trip was for. Determined, she quickly traversed the last two blocks before the bus stop.

Just as she reached the stop, a bus turned the corner and pulled up. Pleased with the good timing, she boarded quickly. A quick glance to verify that the bus was the one she should have taken (if she didn't have a magical means of travel), just incase anyone was watching, paid, and settled herself in a seat towards the middle. She wasn't quite home free yet, and wouldn't allow herself to really relax until she returned home in the evening, but it was a good start.

Well, honestly, she wouldn't allow herself to relax fully until the moment of her first class of her sixth year, until she was absolutely certain that they couldn't just up and decide to remove her from the wizarding world. On the other hand, today was the best break she would have until that time, and she really ought to enjoy it, at least somewhat. It was also likely to be the last few minutes she would spend in the wizarding world until after the Fu… Hermione's mind froze. School-year Hermione was refusing to let less-overprotected-and-rule-abiding-Hermione swear. She nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but quickly settled herself, keeping her expression neutral, and her mind focused on getting off at the right stop.

It was only a few minutes' ride, really. The neighborhood she stopped in was tidy and middle-class, but there was very little chance anyone her parents knew would be around to see her leaving the bus early. She got off the bus and headed about a block over, to where she knew there was a small park. Hermione took some time; just because none of her parents' friends were here, didn't mean she wouldn't arouse suspicion if she walked purposefully into the slight bit of trees and trails surrounding the park. Someone would be bound to wonder where she was going in such a hurry. Breathing deeply, inhaling the soothing scent of trees and fresh-cut grass, she let go of everything that was bothering her. She truly enjoyed the walk, strolling leisurely towards a woodchip-floored trail, occasionally sporting a half-smile as she observed the antics of the children-at-play. Only a few dozen steps down, and the trail disappeared into the trees. Quite suddenly, Hermione was all business again. She looked carefully, but no-one was about. She could still hear the children on the playground, but, checking once more, thought herself quite safe enough; she hailed the Knight Bus.

She hadn't thought of everything, after all, as she realized when a boy, perhaps five years older than herself, stepped out and did a double-take, asking. "Well, now, what's this? Why didn't you just apparate?"

Not really wanting to reveal her age or name, she answered vaguely, "It would be rather more dangerous, wouldn't it?"

He stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Don't go telling me those old fuddy-duddies at the Apparation License Bureau convinced you of that all that rot about splinching half the time?"

Not wanting to single herself out any more than she already had, she allowed some of her exhaustion to show on her face. "No, no; I just think I'm too tired to try it, really."

At that, he smiled at her sympathetically, offered his hand to help her in, and asked her where she was headed.

The ride was even quicker than the previous one, though rather more expensive. In the wizarding world, most objects could be conjured or transfigured, so it was no wonder that most wizards made a living from services rather than goods (though charmed or otherwise magical goods were a different story, and it was considered poor taste to wear transfigured clothing). This also, however, served to drive up the prices of those services. It worked well for all of wizard-kind, and they didn't see it as expensive, but it worked poorly for anyone who had to exchange from a muggle economy; who, after all, thought it reasonable to pay an equivalent of three or so, just to ride a bus?

And yet, before she could begin to seriously debate the advantages and disadvantages to one society over the other, or the ever-increasing similarities between technology and magic, the Knight Bus was stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione found herself staring at the empty space where the wizarding pub ought to be. As always, it took the age-old muggle-repelling charms a moment to let her see the building, as they'd originally been keyed to keep out muggle-borns, as well. She sighed at the reminder, yet again, that she didn't fully belong in this society; not any more, as her parents made quite certain she knew, than she belonged in the society to which she was born. Neither reminder had been necessary for years, she was quite aware that she was an outcast, and that her sort of odd didn't become any less so just by changing worlds.

Even as she resisted the nagging impression - that she ought to look away, look past, and disregard what she was seeing - that was left by the wards, the hidden building melded into visibility before her. Hiking her pack up on her shoulder, she crossed into the building, trying to remain casual and inconspicuous. She went straight to the pubs' bathroom, tugging the long, dark, ambiguous black cloak over her shoulders, though leaving the hood down. It was charmed to adjust to temperature - in this case it would keep her cool - as would be the cloaks of anyone else wandering the alley, and she would draw far less attention if she didn't appear to be wearing muggle clothes.

Her pack now nearly empty, only containing her remaining wizarding funds and a small notepad, she folded it up into one of its own pockets – an ingenious design, really, for a society devoid of magic – and tucked it into a pocket in her slacks, along with the notepad. Clipping the pouch full of wizarding money to her belt, she settled the cloak around herself, and stepped out of the stall to check her appearance. She'd worn a pair of muggle platform boots to give herself the illusion of height, but the cloak –one she'd bought for dress use – was already sized for high heels, and covered them fully. She applied a touch of a magical makeup, adjusted the clasp a touch, and smiled with satisfaction at the results. The mirror reflected almost exactly the image she'd intended; straight-haired, average-heighted, and covered in cloak, she looked several years older, very little like herself, and not the least bit muggle.

* * *

Several hours later, Hermione was wandering the back halls of Flourish and Blotts, feeling rather accomplished in her work. She'd begun with a very long list of things to do, and all that was left was to check out, drop by Blyders' to purchase her muggle texts, and return home. Pain potions in quantity had kept her injuries from paining her, and a few energy potions had meant she even felt rather normal. Gold from a vault Harry had set aside for her, identical to one that awaited Ron (but that Ron wouldn't know about until the need arose), had padded her pockets, and provided for all of her expenses. A tidy little charmed bag, which appeared to all muggles as being rather worn and quite empty (unless items were placed into the "normal" compartment of the bag), contained, in actuality, three additional magical compartments each the full size of the bag (though no larger, the expansion charm would've cost too much). Two of the magical compartments of the bag were fairly well filled with wizarding clothes, potions supplies, writing materials, and a rather large amount of muggle cash. One whole compartment was left for the texts she intended to purchase, but she wasn't entirely certain they would fit. The "normal" compartment was reserved for her muggle supplies, for the things her mother would see.

A large notice board that she'd never paid a great deal of attention to caught her eye; something, for once, managing to distract her from the written word. Situated beside a door, left open, that appeared to lead to an office, was a rather large board, plastered with a colorful myriad of notices. One of these, wedged between a clipping of this weeks' horoscopes and a notice for a doxie removal service, proclaimed an incredible, unbelievable offer. She blinked, then forcefully closed her eyes before re-opening them; it was still there. An odd sideways glance informed her of her horoscope, "The fates have taken mercy on you, and your fortune changes for the better.", and Hermione felt as though she must have stepped into an alternate reality. But still, it was only a simple thing, and perhaps it meant nothing at all. And yet - it was an offer for a job, and one that she felt not only fit her perfectly, but that she was more than qualified for.

Oh, she'd hoped to find a job this summer, but she'd hardly thought something so perfect would fall right into her lap. A half-blood was beginning a scientific journal, intended to detail research regarding mixes of muggle technology and magic. Considering his topic, he wanted all of the articles submitted to be kept in digitized form, but hadn't ever learned to type. Basically, he wanted a data-entry clerk, to work in his or her own office or system, to be paid on a per-article basis. Tearing the note from the board, she tucked into her bag, before making her way to the front and paying for her purchases. She had to restrain herself from displaying her excitement; running pell-mell through the wizarding district in pursuit of a pay-phone would do little to keep up her disguise.

Instead, she casually strolled the remaining length of the alley, finally disappearing back through the brick wall-gate, and into the pub. Once more in the bathroom, and after checking to ensure no-one else was present, she shucked her disguise in favor of a muggle one. If she intended to take on this job, there were a few supplies she needed yet, one of which she'd intended to purchase anyhow – a muggle cellular. Until she knew if she had the job, that'd be all she'd get. Heading out into muggle London, she scanned the street. A handful of buildings down, and she spotted what she needed.

Making sparing use of her cash, she obtained the lowest-end, cheapest, most featureless phone she could, as all she needed was a working method of communication. A handful of minutes-cards were added to the purchase, along with a soda (she doubted she'd see anything like one for rather a while, and there was a certain pleasure in defying her parents' no-sweets rule). Plopping herself onto a bench beside the noisy street didn't seem like a good idea, but she didn't really want to go too far, and the traffic noise might keep her from being overheard. On the other hand, there wasn't really anything magic-related likely to be spoken in this particular discussion, and she did want to sound professional.

Ducking into a rather cozy looking coffee house, which was nearly devoid of customers at this time of day, she ordered an iced drink and settled herself into a chair near the front windows. She tugged the paper from the bottom of her bag, smoothed it, and took a deep breath. As she dialed the number, her fingers half-shook at the possibilities this could open up. Hearing someone pick up, she sat up straighter, almost as though to impress her invisible interviewer.

"Professor Richle's office, how can I help you?" a feminine voice spoke.

Forcibly steadying her hands, and with them her voice, Hermione answered. "Good afternoon. I'm calling in response to an add, the one placed at –"

"Very good." the voice interrupted. "I'll get him for you."

Slightly miffed at the abrupt tone, but realizing more than likely that the receptionist was afraid muggles might hear, Hermione waited. She was somewhat surprised to hear echoing footsteps, and the muffled half-sounds of a distant conversation, but assumed the girl just hadn't bothered to put her on hold. Shortly, another voice answered.

"This is Dr. Richle." The voice was certainly male, and, while rather deep, sounded younger than she expected.

"My name is He-" she paused for the barest instant, but there was nothing for it, she'd have to give her real name. "Hermione Granger. I'm interested in applying for the position mentioned in your add."

"Ahhh. Tell me, how were you born?" To a true muggle, it would simply seem an odd question, but it was a common one in the wizarding world, when attempting to converse where muggles might hear.

"Gifted, but to those who were not." She replied, after a moment.

"Good, good. You type, then?"

"Quite well, sir." Hermione considered adding a words-per-minute, but rather thought it might confuse the man, as well as being unnecessary in a job where she wouldn't be paid by the hour.

"Good. I've not had any other responses as yet, so you have the job, at least for now. We'll do this on a trial run. I'll send you the first article, and I want it sent back on a computer disc; a floppy, not a CD – we haven't convinced CD's to work near magic yet."

"And pay, sir?"

"My, did I forget to mention it? Yes, pay… I'll pay seven galleons for the first article, and if all works out, ten for every article after that."

Hermione had to bite her lower lip to keep from gasping. That was certainly a lot of money for typing up a single article.

He seemed to interpret her silence wrongly, for he asked. "Is that an unfair payment? I know the calligraphers charge a great deal more, but I'd heard that typing was faster and far simpler once learned."

"No, no, it's quite fair, sir. I would be pleased to take on the work, then."

"Good, good!" He proclaimed. "And none of this 'sir' business – you must call me Edwin."

Something was severely bothering Hermione, however. "Certainly, s… Edwin. But I do have to ask – why not have your receptionist type it for you?"

A roaring, but not unpleasant, laugh met her ears. "Get Val to do it? Lord, do you have any idea how long it took to train her to answer the telly? She kept trying to _tell_ the telephone whom she wanted to dial, instead of putting in the number, and complaining that no-one could possibly transport her voice if her head didn't travel with it."

Hermione shared the man's laughter, though rather more quietly. Wizards could be rather amusing when confronted with technology, after all.

"Ah, thanks for the laugh." Edwin continued, more calmly. "Now, where would you like the manuscript sent?"

Hermione had known this might come, and, considering, wished she'd made the stop first. "I'm going to take out a postal box for it, but I haven't acquired one yet. Is it alright if I call back with the address?"

"Fine idea, having a box for this, not making the muggles hunt for a wizarding home. Might make use of that, myself. Yes, certainly; just leave the message with Val, I've a lecture soon and won't be in. Is there a number I can reach you at?"

With the explanation that she had a mobile and was often "out of range", Hermione gave him the number and reassured him that she would reply to any messages he left in her voicemail. With a final thanks, she ended the conversation.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, she flagged down a server. As the double-chocolate cake topped with coffe-flavored ice cream was placed before her, she truly smiled for the first time since she'd arrived home. Pain and torment securely locked in a far-removed section of her brain, she dug her fork through the sugary mess that might have been a dentists' worst nightmare. She savored it, each bite another defiant strike against her parents. On the whole, it was a thorough beating, and one she relished.


	4. Deepening

It was dark, but she was perfectly comfortable in the dark. She had to be, really, for much of her life had been spent in darkness, only varying in its source. Darkness of night, of room, of life, of spirit, of circumstance… perhaps, as she'd often wondered, it was because the darkness ruled her life. And perhaps it was fate, of destinty, or whatever, because somehow, she'd always been strong enough not to become the darkness, no matter that she'd lived and breathed it.

Even still, you can't bathe in dirt without getting dirty.

The stars overhead shone brightly, and the moon, nearly full, was out as well. She thought the sight was as beautiful as ever; she never tired of looking at the stars. They were even… comforting, in an odd sort of way. They were always there, always beautiful, no matter what was going on in her life; even if she couldn't see them. One shot past, the comets' trail a fiery bluish green, and Hermione smiled. She stopped walking for a moment, closing her eyes and wishing. With all her heart, she wished that the summer would come out alright. That she'd survive it all, fulfill the contract, and return to Hogwarts.

Opening her eyes, she focused her attention back down to earth. She was only a few dozen steps from the huge front door of her parents' house, but the distance felt more like a mile, just now. She'd intentionally not taken any pain potions starting two hours ago (her parents would surely notice if she suddenly acted perfectly fine), and now the remnants of the earlier doses were wearing off. She felt odd following the sidewalk that lead from the gate to the front of the house; it wasn't a route she often took, and she felt almost like a visitor. Normally, she went through the garage, and the garage had almost-direct access to the street, the driveway being only perhaps a third as long as this walkway. Gazing up at the front of the sprawling building she'd lived in all her life, a rather sarcastic and twisted part of her found humor in the brightly glowing, open, welcoming look of the light shining out the many windows. Reaching the door, she heaved a sigh; this was likely to go rather poorly, considering it was late, and she hadn't asked permission to visit the wizarding district.

But just as she reached for the doorknob, she felt the oddest thing. It was as though something told her "leave", but… what could it mean? Shrugging the feeling off, she reached for the doorknob again.

_Don't! _

It was almost like a voice, but that wasn't exactly what it was. The meaning was clear enough, but it was more like a feeling than thought or word. Why would she be having bad feelings about opening the door? They wouldn't be _that _mad. Shaking herself, and attributing it to her own paranoia, Hermione reached again for the door.

_NO!_

This time, it was more like a scream, and Hermione jumped back nearly a foot, dropping her hand. Glancing quickly around, she retreated to the side of the house to sort things out. She wasn't about to pretend she hadn't heard (felt?) anything this time. Surely the voice, intuition, feeling - whatever it was – would know how badly not-going-in-at-all would end. Which meant it had to be something else. Had she left a potion or a magic text in the non-magic part of her pack? Did she leave some slip of paper in her pocket that would hint of her new job, or that she did any more than simply change money and buy muggle study guides today?

She rifled through every pocket, pouch, and paper on her person and in her bag. Nothing showed as out of place. Well – nothing that wasn't intended to seem out of place, anyways. Her parents still thought her a total slob, and she wasn't about to go changing that image – messes helped to hide things, and allowed them to think her a fool, despite her intelligence. If she suddenly seemed organized, if she didn't have bills wadded up with receipts, or dog-eared store flyers mixed in with lazily shoved together purchases, they wouldn't believe the seemingly accidentally left evidence of minor infractions – like the receipt for the bottle of soda she'd stuck in her pocket, wadded together with the receipt for the muggle texts. They'd punish her for it, sure; but having found evidence of her "perpetual wickedness", they wouldn't look any further. But if they stopped finding such things, they might just think to look further, or to suspect her capable of hiding something.

And she couldn't afford that. She couldn't afford _any_ mistakes, not _this _summer.

So what was it? She'd had such feelings before, but they were usually clearer; she must've been distracted. Closing her eyes, she thought about approaching the door again, concentrated on the feelings that had coursed through her every time she reached for the handle. She felt them again, slowly, looking for what had drawn her, what had stopped her, what was the source.

And there it was. The sensations sorted themselves out into sentences, but the meaning surprised her. "leave" became _Leave it; _"Don't" was suddenly_ Don't take the Pack, _and "NO!"_ No magic._

It was getting later every minute, though, and she didn't really have the time to spend hours out behind the garage, huddled in the shadows, sorting through odd messages. Shrugging the pack from her shoulders, Hermione pulled out the collapsible pack she'd brought to Diagon Alley. She dumped her muggle books into it, and reached to shove her new magical pack into a shrub. With the servants gone, no-one but her would see the bushes before she could retrieve it. A last impulse, however, made her dig out a book from Flourish and Blott's that wasn't necessary to her plans (in fact, it was simply a book on wizarding universities that she'd bought to help keep herself motivated). Tugging off the cover, she swapped it for that of a muggle book of the same size. Shoving the muggle book with wizarding cover back into the bag, the whole lot was soon hidden by tidily-trimmed shrubbery.

As she walked again towards the front door, her sense of dread grew steadily. By the time she reached for the door, she felt more as though she were intentionally seeking out her execution than her parents. As her hand brushed the doorknob, and the door swung soundlessly open, fear came upon her like none she'd ever known. Unfortunately, no odd urges suggested how she might lessen whatever was to come. Instead, she felt an odd certainty that she'd done all she could.

It wasn't really very reassuring.

She crossed the foyer, the soles of her shoes still echoing slightly, despite her best efforts. She entered the center archway, exchanging her shoes at the edge of the carpet for the white slippers left there for that purpose. At the far end of the hall, she turned left, the corridor to this side carpeted in blue instead of white, and requiring a corresponding trade for blue slippers, which elicited an eye roll as always. It was the only time she was glad for her fathers' influence; if Hermione's mother had her way, there'd be a set of slippers for every room in the place.

Another long trek brought her to the door to her mothers' study, which she rapped on gently.

"Come in." Came a voice, one far deeper than the one she was expecting.

Dreading the reason her father would have for waiting up for her in her mother's study, Hermione swung open the door. "Mother asked me to come by when I got home." She stated neutrally, noting that both parents were in the room, and looked rather unhappy. Her father glared at her, from his position, with one hip perched on the large mahogany desk her mother sat at. His gaze was sharp and filled with venom, suggesting only darkness and pain.

Her mother's glare was no weaker. "How was your day?" She asked, in a would-be-casual tone that reeked of threat and warning.

Unnerved, Hermione forgot to think out her answer. "Long." She replied honestly, but realized quickly that such a statement might be seen as a complaint. "But productive." She added, as though satisfied with herself.

Her father snorted derisively. "I'll bet."

" Richard" Her mother said, sharply, though she didn't lessen her glare, either.

Hermione kept her expression neutral, but inside, she was terrified. It was as though they knew what she'd been up to. That, or this was one of those occasions where she'd be punished for an imagined wrong, where they'd decided her guilty of something horrid, and would refuse to hear her pleas of innocence. It had happened so many times before, that she had a notebook, where she kept a log of all such unjust punishments, and of what she'd been accused of. Someday, when she was free of her parents, she intended to earn every last punishment on that list; to commit every single crime. But this was different still, and far worse. They were angry, truly angry, and this could only end badly.

The silence stretched out, and Hermione forced herself to fidget, in hopes that they would keep to the pretense of "normal" if she responded like a guilty child. She stared at the ground, shifting foot to foot, though her urge was to freeze still and not move, or perhaps to run.

"Give your bag to your father, Hermione." Her mother said.

Hermione passed over the bag, silently.

"Empty your pockets. Take off your slacks, and give them here."

No games, this time, she could hear it in her mother's tone. The switch in her mind flipped, and the colors of the room shifted to grey. Hermione followed the orders of the woman before her, face completely blank, emotions gone entirely. The others in the room took no notice.

"There's nothing here." Her father said, his voice a mix of anger and expectation.

Her mother pulled an odd-looking green device from the desk, somewhat resembling half a wand, and waved it over both the pants and the pockets' contents. "Nor here, except that she picked up a soda. Getting smarter, this one is. We'll have to watch her." The woman sighed, examining her critically, as though to contemplate where else something might be hidden. "Your shirt, as well, then."

Hermione pulled off the article of clothing without a word or wasted movement. The woman searched its pockets, again sweeping it with the green rod, before calling her over. The nameless object was waved over her body, before her mother patted her down, snorted, and returned her clothing. "Put it back on, twit. You wouldn't be clever enough to hide anything on you, anyways."

"We'll have to search the house, and the grounds." The woman said.

"Nonsense." The man said. He was now flipping through notebooks, page by page. "We'll just get her to tell us."

"I wouldn't've thought she'd have it in her, really. I hardly believed she'd betray us, lie to us, for something so ..." The woman responded, now reaching across to the pile the man was making on the desk, and examining books critically.

Hermione carefully took in the information, storing it word-for-word, but unable to process it without risking herself.

The woman flipped one of the books open, and frowned. She checked the cover, and then the book again. She studied the page for another moment, reading carefully. "Aha! Here it is, Richard! Not so crafty after all!"

"What is it? Curses? Hexes?"

"A guide for _Wizarding Universities_." Her mother spat, as though she'd discovered pornographic material. "It seems she doesn't intend to listen to us, after all. She intends to go flitting after her hobby, and leaving us, despite all we've done for her. Oh, what grievous sin has brought me such a willful child?"

"An ungrateful, spoiled brat is more the case." The man responded. "Do you know why we knew to look for this, twit?"

"No." Hermione answered, tonelessly. There was no point in pretending, not now, they would ignore the masks anyways, and masks required some measure of herself, which would be too great a risk right now.

"The father of one of your classmates dropped by, today, and told us a bit of a story. He said that his son had carried home some dangerous potions, things for experimenting, some of them quite volatile. He suggested we check your belongings, as well."

Her mother butted in. "Of course, we told him you would never do such a thing. That you were more responsible than that, or at least that you wouldn't lie to us, betray our trust, in such a way."

Her father allowed a moment for the words to "sink in" before continuing. "He suggested we check, and offered to accompany us, just in case, promising to identify anything we found. And right on the top of your trunk, for all eyes to see, where a dozen little stoppered vials. Pain potions, he said, and healing potions."

"He didn't seem to think anything of it." Her mother added. "And apologized for wasting our time. But then, before he left, he suggested you might just be hiding things, or keeping them on your person. We told him you'd gone to the Alley, asked how we could know if you'd gotten anything you shouldn't have, and he gave your father a long look. He gave us this." She held up the rod. "It detects magic and magical objects."

"He explained that, no matter how good, all children have weaknesses. Yours, even he knew, was books. He told us to check you for magic, but that, if we didn't find a wizarding book on you, we'd know you had other hiding places."

Her mother stared at the book in her hand, and sighed. "I suppose he is right, though. There isn't a chance even a normal child could've passed up such an opportunity, and in your case it's ten times as bad; we both know you have no self-control. So. We won't punish you for the book."

Hermione almost relaxed, colors began to seep slowly back into the world. At her father's voice, however, things snapped back to shades of grey.

"We will, however, punish you for trying to hide it from us. As your mother said, it's normal to want something, and to get it, if possible, even if it's forbidden. Trying to deceive us, however, is something only someone like you would do – it's evil, and for that you must be punished."

"Your punishment is one full week in your room." Her mother spoke with finality. "Our trip will be delayed accordingly; as I'm sure you've figured out, that leaves you with only one week at the end of summer to yourself for study. Nothing else changes. You still must do well on the exams, if you wish to work."

Hermione didn't move. There was more to come. Her father hadn't spoken yet.

"And I." He said, deadly soft. "Will ensure you learn the lesson you were meant to. Your potions have all been destroyed. Avoiding your just punishments is not acceptable. You will be taught again, and this time, there won't be any magic to save you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	5. Waking Death

Her feet left indentations in the plush carpeting, leaving shallow slipper-shaped tracks in her wake. Glancing behind her at the evenly spaced, straight lines of her travel, they seemed like the only evidence of herself amidst the grandeur of her parents' lives. And, of course, the only mark she could make was one they would scorn, would be bothered by, and would certainly have vacuumed up by tomorrow. The world was in color once more, but it didn't matter. There was every chance she might die tonight, and Hermione refused to let go of her life without feeling it. Everything was detached, but it was becoming less so by the minute, and yet the part of her that was terrified was still very much over shadowed by the part that was logical.

Her father walked ahead of her; the man that was supposed to protect her, leading her intentionally to a place where only pain dwelled. The pain would be brought by his hand, and this time she would feel it. This time, like no other time, she would remember. And every time she began to forget, she would remind herself; she deserved this punishment, her carelessness had brought it upon her. If she did not wish to live out her life ignorant of who she was, having wasted every moment of study, every hope or ambition, she could not afford mistakes. And if this, if what was coming, could not serve to remind her of the cost of failure, then she deserved every minute of mindless, unknowing hell that the rest of her life would be.

Her feet changed slippers mindlessly, donning the green ones of the east wing, following, dreading, and contemplating. Even knowing what would come, even feeling the remnants of the last time, tearing away as she moved, she couldn't bring up the proper fear as she walked the brightly-lit halls. And then, at her fathers' gesture, she was discarding the slippers, walking barefoot into the garage. She stood still, and did not move, and did not tremble.

"Get the belt, Hermione."

His voice, this time, was little more than a whisper. Her mind and body begged for the whiteness, begged to not have to endure the humiliation that was to come, but she silenced them. _You deserve this._ She crossed the room, and removed the belt from its peg, forcing her hand to steady as she passed the instrument of pain to her tormentor._ You were careless. _He swung it in his hand, slightly, cracking it against the floor once. _You have only one last chance, and this, or so you must hope, is enough to make even one as worthless as you remember._

"Take off your clothes."

Her hands moved automatically, but she could only make them move slowly. Her shirt was only halfway up her back when the strike came.

_Whoosh-snap _"Now! Or I will whip you hard enough to remove them!"

She flung them from her, though her body screamed in protest, and her mind begged her to leave them on, to leave a buffer between the sting and her bare flesh.

_Whoosh-snap_ "Kneel."

It was an unnecessary command. Even her conscious mind knew the drill. Still, he repeated the litany of commands that ruled every punishment.

_Whoosh-snap_ "You will remain kneeling." _Whoosh-snap_ "You will not stand, you will not sit, you will not raise or move your hands from your sides. You will not cry out." _Whoosh-SNAP_

Unbidden, a moan rose to meet the harsher crack of the whip that followed his words. She swallowed it back too late, and, for the first time that night, tasted true fear._ Whoosh-_SNAP! "You _will not_ vocalize or move _whatsoever_!" And then he fell silent, but that was worse.

_Whoosh-snap. Whoosh-snap. Whoosh-snap. _

_You _will_ remember_. Her mind whispered.

_You will, Whoosh-snap! You will, Whoosh-snap! You will, Whoosh-snap!_

_You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP! _

_You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP!_

_You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP!_

In the echoing silence of the mostly-empty garage, the screams and pleas of her mind were nearly as loud as the crack of the whip, or the occasional grunt of her protector-turned-tormentor.

The strikes came swifter, now. _SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!_

The white haze threatened at the edges of her mind, time and again, but she pushed it back, just as often, though the pain had long since blurred her vision into meaningless dark shapes. It was her own personal hell, and it was of her own making.

_You_ will not _fail_. She demanded of herself. _You will not let them win_. _You _will_ remember every moment of this._

And still the crack of the whip echoed, burning into her flesh like an endless litany of all her faults.

_SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!_ SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

"You will follow all of our directions, this summer, but we will not see you. We will not have to see you. Your mother and I decided it would teach the lesson best if magic were involved in your punishment, and purchased this device by owl-order, amusingly enough. It is apparently used by bosses who think their employees lazy. It will track, for us, the hours you spend working. Every full minute in which you work will count, but every minute in which you do not work will not count. It will keep a nice, tidy running total of your time and money earned. You will bring us a contract, next Monday morning, and we will all sign, so that you cannot say you weren't warned, so that you will know you have earned it _when _you fail. You will not use any magic on it, and we will check."

_THUD._

_Oh, god._

"And now, I will remind you of your place. Do not forget again, worthless, idiotic freak."

CRACK! CRACK! _THUD._

CRACK! CRACK!

Oh, god… oh, no… oh please….

CRACK! _THUD._ _Whump. THUD._ CRACK! CRACK!

_I won't … I swear…never …never forget… not again…_

CRACK! _THUD._ CRACK!_ Whump, THUD._ CRACK! _Whump. THUD._ _Whump. _CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! _THUD._ _THUD._ CRACK!

_Please…oh please…_

_Please… let me…live…_

_Want… to… to… to… live…_

_Not… here…_

_Not… die…not…here…now…no…no… no… …please… …no……not here…not now…_

……………_no…………_

…_please………_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was warm.

So, so warm. And light – she could feel the sunlight, feel the light that she never thought she'd feel again, gently caressing her skin.

Nothing hurt, not specifically, but her whole body was one mass of ache. That, and she hadn't moved yet. It would be worse if she moved.

Still, it didn't ache as bad as it ought. And the surface below her felt far softer than she ever remembered the garage floor to.

Perhaps it was just the joy of living? Of finding herself alive?

Somehow, she didn't think so.

Only one way to find out, really.

Cautiously, she moved her index finger. Nothing, beyond the former ache. Curious, she shifted her whole hand – stabbing pains of remaining cuts in her arms arched through her like fire, but … nothing more. Nothing.

Intrigued, now, she shifted her head on the pillow – WAIT! Pillow? Her eyes shot open – only to be met with the sight of white ceiling. White ceiling, and, in her peripheral vision, windows and a desk and dresser that looked awfully familiar.

Not daring to move her head, her gaze darted around, taking in farmiliar surroundings, lighting on the door just in time to see it begin to swing open. Frightened of what it might mean, for good or for ill, she clamped her eyes back shut.

A low chuckle met her ears. "Awake at last, are you?" Came a familiar voice.

_Draco Malfoy. _She couldn't fight back the shiver that greeted hearing the voice of the would-be Death Eater. The summer had just officially gotten worse.

His voice dripped with sarcasm when he spoke. "So, Muggles are people, too, and perfectly normal, eh?"

By now she was outright shaking, unable to feel anything except an all-consuming fear.

But his voice was gentle when it came again. "Hey, now, calm down. I didn't mean it that way. Don't worry. Shush. I'm not going to eat you, alright?"

"Wh-w-why?"

"Because you're not dead."

The response threw her enough off track that she left her fear behind. "Huh?"

"You know… death eater, eat death, you're not dead…." He sighed. "It was a joke."

Cautiously, she opened her eyes again, only to see her worst enemy staring at her, and looking nothing like himself. Instead of hate and scorn, his face was lined with worry and softened with compassion. Where he would usually appear perfectly tidy and entirely in control, he carried the haggard appearance of someone who hadn't slept in days, and had spent the entire time working.

"Wha… How - ? Why?" She asked.

"I didn't want you to go and die on me, not before I got the chance to talk to you, and apologize, first." He said, sounding less like himself than ever, though the tone of his voice was right.

She just stared at him.

He sighed. "I found out what your parents were going to do, or, well, I suspected what might happen. I thought I'd come and find out if I was right, and, well, I was. I – it's not like I could have just left you there. I know we've had our problems in the past, but –"

"What's in it for you?" She interrupted him.

He hesitated just a moment too long before replying. "Nothing."

She snorted, though she quickly regretted the action, as it really rather hurt. In a strained voice, she replied. "I don't believe that for a minute."

His sigh was deeper, this time. "Look, I'll tell you all about it later. But – I want you to know, I would've done it anyways, even if it weren't… Nevermind. We'll get to that. How do you feel?"

"Hurts." She muttered. "Though – I don't think it's as bad as it should be."

"Here." He handed her a bluish-colored vial.

Hermione looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

"It's not poison!" He said, exasperatedly. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I'd've done it some time in the last three days while you were unconscious. Better yet, I would've just left you where you were, and you would've died on your own."

All things considered, he made sense. Besides which, she couldn't really bring herself to care. Still, she sniffed it for a second before swallowing the entire contents of the vial. It likely tasted horrid, but the relief she felt was so immense that she couldn't have brought herself to notice. Like ice flowing through her veins in place of fire, melting and cooling and soothing where it touched, it eased every ache and pain she felt. Strong hands, surprisingly so, helped her to sit up, propping pillows behind her head.

But as the pain disappeared, logic returned. "Wait – my parents… if they see you…"

"Maybe I should begin at the beginning." Draco responded. "I have a lot to tell you, really, but you should know, for now, that we're quite safe. And, that I'm not the only one here. Crabbe is here as well, keeping watch, and Blaise was here, earlier, and might come back. None of us are here to harm you."

"Um… okay. I suppose" Hermione paused, but everything was too weird to really sort anything out just now. "I suppose I can accept that."

"Good."

"But I want to know – and from the beginning – exactly why you're here, and why you think I should trust you."

Draco nodded. "I expected as much. Let me tell you, first off, that I'm not loyal to the Dark Lord. Myself, Blaise, Crabbe and a couple of others from other years in my house have sort of… banded together, and we're not going to follow in our fathers' footsteps. Some others, like Pansy and Goyle, agree with us, and will keep our secret, but refuse to take an active role – both of them are destined for an inactive form of service to the Dark Lord, and don't want to risk it. Pansy's only role is to _marry_ a Death Eater, and Goyle is intended to be a herbologist, with no greater role than supplying dangerous ingredients now and again." Draco paused a moment. "Most of us, though, don't have that luxury."

"Since the Dark Lord returned, our families have changed, fathers who we once looked up to turning cruel, or even abusive." Shifting, Draco pulled up a sleeve from his long-sleeved shirt, and showing a series of scars that looked not unlike her own arm when a glamour was no longer present. "Not only that, but we see what the Dark Lord does to them for their loyalty - coming home from every meeting weak, trembling, and in pain. We want no part of that."

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing, or what she'd seen, but it certainly made sense. She nodded for Draco to continue.

"For the last year, we've been looking for a way to prove it to the side of the light. You see, we have to have protection from the light, if we defy our parents, or it will be… unpleasant. I'm quite sure you know what I mean."

Hermione nodded. That, she understood.

"Our plans began to be put into play last week. We visited Potter, at his relatives house, but it didn't go over very well."

Hermione snorted. No, she didn't imagine it would have.

"We only got to talk to him a few minutes, as he was outside playing house-elf to the muggles. He was exceptionally depressed, entirely unwilling to trust us, but we thought we were making some headway – until, that is, his Uncle came outside to check on him. He screamed at us and ordered us out of his yard, and then rounded on Potter. I didn't hear what his punishment was to be, but when we came back that evening and flew up to his window, he refused to talk to us."

Worry for Harry crawled into Hermione's belly, and she suddenly felt selfish for not having even given thought to her friend so far this summer. What if his summer were going as badly as her own? It must've shown on her face, though, because Draco added.

"Don't worry, it wasn't anything like that. We've watched them most of the summer so far, actually, and, while they hate him and don't give him much to eat, I've never seen them raise a hand against him."

Hermione sighed with relief. "So, you're hoping that, by saving me, I'll recommend you to the side of light. I certainly owe you, at least that much. Still, you haven't told me how you knew to come."

"It started last Sunday morning…."


End file.
